


bloody shirt

by hysteries



Series: kerosene (tim stoker appreciation week) [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Background Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Companionable Snark, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Road Trips, Suicidal Thoughts, The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), we're not friends but hey! we actually have a ton in common! who knew?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysteries/pseuds/hysteries
Summary: “You’d do anything for her,” he blurts out. Internally, he cringes at the words. He sounds like Jon – which is probably why Tonner doesn’t reply. That, or she just thinks the words themselves are stupid, which is fair. He does too.Tim rubs the back of his neck. “I used to be like that.”
Relationships: Tim Stoker & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Series: kerosene (tim stoker appreciation week) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730320
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31
Collections: Tim Stoker Appreciation Week





	bloody shirt

He calls his mum and da at a shitty little rest stop in Thetford. While the line rings, he stares at the bright blue sign for Greggs. There’s an advert for sausage rolls on it. Once, years back, he’d brought twenty into the office and bet Sasha and Martin he could eat them all. Jon had walked in midway and gone on a tangent about cholesterol and _knowing where your meat comes from_. He’d been frowning the entire time, but he’d stayed and watched too, only turning on his heel when Tim stuffed in the last bit and Martin had erupted into cheers. Sasha handed him a fiver, and barely grumbled at all when he turned green midway through phone calls. It was well worth the ensuing stomach-ache, sick, and lecture from Jon about “appropriate office behaviour” now that they “ran the archives.”

Used to be, whenever he saw sausage rolls, there’d be a muscle-memory pang in his stomach. Now, though, the sign turns his stomach in new ways.

“Hello?” Da’s Cork accent’s gotten stronger. It’s been building ever since they moved back five years ago – since Danny. He wishes he’d made it back up there over Christmas, like he was supposed to, but it’s easier to stay away. For the lot of them, he’s sure of it. Best not to have Mum step downstairs and utter another _Danny_ when she sees Tim.

In spite of the situation, the fact that this might be the last time they speak, the conversation doesn’t bear the weight he wants it to. It’s inconsequential, mundane, normal. Mum is roused from her midday nap (another after-Danny feature) and she murmurs familiar phrases that no longer sound right. “What about that girl? Bring her over this summer – it’ll be lovely, oh, you’ll love what’s been done to the garden, we’ve got rosemary and violets…”

Weeks ago, that might’ve hurt, but now, it’s just a dull ache. He hardly feels anything at all.

Da is careful. Softer. Like he can sense a Stoker-splosion coming from leagues away and knows best to steer clear. He sticks to easy topics. His flat, the weather, rugby. As the conversation winds down, Tim swallows past the lump in his throat. His eyes bore into the Greggs sign.

“You take care of yourself, ya hear?”

“Course, Da. You look after mum – and make sure she looks after you, yeah?”

“Always do. Love you, Timmy.”

His throat closes. “You too – love you both.”

There’s a goodbye, afterwards, and Tim’s left with a dial tone. And that’s it. He’s got no more goodbyes left to make. No more anything, nothing at all. Just him.

The longer he stares at the Greggs sign, the more it seems to glow. Now leaving Normaltown, welcome to Freakville, UK. It shouldn’t freak him out – it’s Greggs, just fucking Greggs – but he can feel the hairs stand on the back of his neck.

There’s something behind him.

He whirls around, elbow raised defensively, and is met with a bark of a laugh. “Seriously?”

It’s the cop, the one Tim’s never liked. Daisy Tonner. She’s got eyes like flint and a chin that could cut glass. Not even the blonde waves of her hair soften her. He looks at her and he sees _cold_. Ice. Brutality. He knows cops like Tonner. Been stopped, once or twice, by one of them looking for trouble. It never ends pretty.

“Christ. Should’ve said hello – or does that not fit with the whole dirty cop shtick?”

She ignores him and just stares, smirk on her mouth disappearing. The way she looks at him makes his skin crawl. Like she’s assessing a threat. Whatever she finds, it’s gotta be unimportant, because after a moment, she takes a step to stand next to him. She crosses her arms. He wonders if she’s mirroring his stance on purpose, or whether it’s some cop technique he isn’t privy to.

“We need to talk.”

This time, he’s the one who scoffs, caught entirely off-guard. “Do we, now?”

It’s not like they’re some sort of A-team. Ever since they loaded up the van Tim rented, it’s been effectively dead silence. Basira tries to go over the plan every half hour or so, but the conversation always peters out afterwards, and they wind up sitting in quiet. Tim has nothing to say to any of them. Not her, not Tonner, and definitely not Jon, who’s so far spent the whole time staring out the front window like he’s glued to the TV.

“You were saying your goodbyes.”

Silence, for a beat. And then: “Were you listening in?” He bristles. “I know you guys love violating rights, but if you think I’m just going to let you walk all over —”

She cuts him off. “You’re about as discreet as a punch to the face.”

He’s not quite sure what to say to that. _Thank you? Fuck you?_

“We all know you’re not planning on coming back. You’ve made that very bloody clear.”

He hasn’t meant to, but it’s like she said. He’s no good at subtlety; never has been. Makes sense, now, why Jon took the keys in when he went into the petrol station, and why Martin hugged him with a strength that Tim didn’t know he had. _Come back safely_ , he’d said, arms cutting off the airflow in Tim’s mid-section, _Swear you’ll be back in one piece_.

“Bothers you, does it? Thinking about how much you’re gonna miss me?” He smirks; it’s a piss-poor imitation, lazy and misshapen.

“I don’t give a fuck about what you do.” He doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s telling the truth. And fair enough – the feeling is mutual.

“Gee, thanks.”

“But you leave her out of it, alright?”

He presses his mouth shut and shifts slightly to stare at Tonner. She’s looking straight ahead, face impassive and sharp as ever. He can’t read it; course, he doesn’t need to, obviously, to know who she’s referring to.

Did he used to sound like that? Did he look like that, back when Prentiss came into the Institute and he let Sasha run out the open door? Or before, when he brought a knapsack to fight monsters in the Royal Opera? Were his eyes so wide and bright? Was his voice so husky and heavy? Tim doesn’t know. All of that happened to another person, an entity separate from him. Someone who didn’t dream about skin suits and faceless people, who didn’t wake up with the taste of rot in his mouth.

“I’m not looking to get Basira involved—”

She interrupts again. “That’s not what I’m saying. Basira’s way, way too smart to go for your martyr shit anyways. But if you see an opportunity, and she’s in the way… just hold off until till she’s safe.”

It occurs to him that Tonner is asking him for a favour. Or she’s demanding one, really, but it’s all the same. Huh.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He means it; he really does. The whole idea is to get this thing – the Stranger, Orsinov, what-the-fuck-ever – to stop taking and taking and _taking_. To take something from it instead. “It’s not going to get any more of us.” _Us_. The word lands heavily in between them.

She turns, just an inch, to meet his eyes, and nods curtly. “Alright.” No _thank you_ or anything, but he doesn’t care. He’s not trying to play the hero – the time for that’s finished. Not trying to bond with Tonner, either. Actually, he’d really prefer not to.

“You’d do anything for her,” he blurts out. Internally, he cringes at the words. He sounds like Jon – which is probably why Tonner doesn’t reply. That, or she just thinks the words themselves are stupid, which is fair. He does too.

Tim rubs the back of his neck. “I used to be like that.”

He thinks he did, at least. He’s sure he would’ve done anything for Danny. Thrown himself in front of that clown and had his body ripped limb from limb (but he didn’t do that, did he). He thinks he might’ve for Sasha too, fought off hordes of Prentiss’ worms and shapeshifting monsters (but he didn’t do that either). And who’s left now?

Jon won’t look directly at him. Martin doesn’t trust him. Rugby club is non-existent. His parents have their hands full with Danny’s ghost. He can’t help anyone – not unless he does this. Wrenches the Circus apart with his own too hands. Makes them bleed, shrink, disappear. Crushes them into obsolescence. Then, maybe, he’ll actually manage to save someone.

(He’s not trying to save anyone, he can’t, he’s rubbish at it.)

“It’s not your fault, you know.” There’s no warmth or kindness in her voice. Tim’s not quite sure Tonner’s capable of that. She speaks matter-of-factly, direct and firm, with no pretense of comfort. “These things, they’re _monsters_. If there’s no one to stop them, they’ll tear us all to pieces. What you did – what you didn’t do – it doesn’t matter.”

 _What you didn’t do_. His mouth twists into a wry half-smile. So Jon had told her and Basira everything, then. He’s too tired to argue or get defensive. In a couple hours, they might all be dead – who the fuck cares about one last dig of the knife?

“Cheers. Great pep talk.”

“’S what I’m here for. Team morale.”

He squints slightly. “Was that a joke?”

The lines around her eyes deepen. “D’you need me to explain it to you?”

This time, Tim laughs. It feels good. “Fuck off.”

“If only. I think you’re the only one of us that actually wants to be here.”

That sounds about right. “Oh, I RSVP-ed ages ago. Been waiting on the edge of my seat ever since.”

Tonner chuckles. At least, he thinks she does. Given that he’s never heard her make a sound other than a grunt before, it’s touch and go. When he looks back towards her, she’s holding out a cigarette. “One for the road?”

“Yeah.” He waits a beat before taking it. It’s already lit and he brings it to his lips. The weight left by the phone call shifts – moves a little off his chest.

After a long exhale, he can’t help himself from asking, “D’you think they’ll be alright?” He gestures towards the petrol station.

As much as he hates them (and he does, with a part of him that’s withered and black and so ugly), he’s also sure they don’t deserve this. Any of it. They’re trapped in the same unavoidable, hungry circle that he is. But maybe they’ll find another way out.

“Christ, no. But they’ll survive.” He hears her flick her own lighter open. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He nods. “Martin and Melanie too.”

“Yeah, them too.” He’s not sure if Daisy means it, but he’s not sure meaning it would make any difference. It’s all just _nothingness_. Words, promises, nothingness; the same in the end. At least the smoke is warm in his lungs. “Looks like they’re ready.”

He shifts back to face the station. Basira and Jon are walking out, arms full of water bottles and snacks ( _you need electrolytes for energy_ , he’d said once when Tim napped on top of a statement box). They seem to be in an animated discussion. He hopes it isn’t about him. He’s tired, so tired, of all this fighting.

As Daisy moves away, he clears the smoke out of his throat. “Thanks.” Their eyes meet again, hers as impenetrable as ever. “For this.” He waves the cigarette lightly, ash flying off.

“You’re welcome.”

He watches her go. Her ponytail floats behind her, a puff of strawberry blonde stark against the black of her jacket. When she reaches the others, Basira’s already handing her water, and Daisy’s tucking them under her arms. Seamless. They fold into each other, heads dipped in quiet conversation. Tim can’t stop looking at them.

Movement catches his eye, and he realizes Jon is staring at him with those creepy eyes of his. They were like that once, weren’t they? Tossing documents and coffees between each other like a well-oiled machine, the research department’s dream team.

Tim looks away.

By the time he makes it back to the van, Jon’s got his lips pursed. “Are you alright?” He asks, too little, too late.

Tim flashes him a grin, forced and bitter. “Good as ever.” He swings himself into the driver’s seat through the open door.

As he pulls out of the parking lot, his eyes catch the Greggs sign again. This time, his stomach doesn’t twist itself into a knot. He thinks of his parents, of Basira and Jon and Martin and Melanie, of Daisy, of Sasha and Danny.

He knows what he has to do.

**Author's Note:**

> happy tuesday! this was the toughest one yet, since i really wasn't sure about daisy's voice, but i wanted to give it a shot. and i'm so happy i did! i think her and tim have lots in common in season three, though neither of them would ever recognize or admit it, and their awkward interrogation in MAG82 was a lot of fun to try to build on. my biggest regret about this piece is not putting more basira into it (her part in the unknowing is my favourite), but she just didn't fit in with these two (pun intended) lone wolves. also, i firmly believe the stokers are at least half-irish, so please take da stoker, a chemist from cork.
> 
> for day three of tim stoker appreciation week, i went with the prompt "family" (but clearly, i ended up with some "loneliness" and a pinch of "stranger" in here too). day two and day three are as dark as i'm planning to get — get ready for your regularly scheduled office comedy / rom com in the coming days!


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